“I must ask you to have patience for a short time longer, gentlemen,” said the Inspector, smoothing his mustache with the back of his small hand. “We have a few things more to do here — and then we’ll see... Ah! You’re MacKenzie, I take it? Are those the watchmen? Bring ’em in, man!”
The middle-aged Scotchman had entered the window-room, herding before him four oldish men with frightened faces and fidgety hands. Ritter made up the rear.
“Yes, Inspector. By the way, I’m having the employees checked up, as Sergeant Velie instructed me to.” MacKenzie waved the four men forward. They shuffled a step farther into the room, reluctantly.
“Who’s the head nightwatchman among you?” demanded the Inspector.
A corpulent old man with fleshy features and placid eyes stepped forward, touching his forehead.
“I am, sor — Peter O’Flaherty’s me name.”
“Were you on duty last night, O’Flaherty?”
“Yes, sor. That I was.”
“What time did you go on?”
“Me reg’lar hour, sor,” said the watchman, “Ha’past five. It’s O’Shane I relieve at th’ desk in the night-office on th’ 39th Street side. These boys here” — he indicated the two men behind him with a fat and calloused forefinger — “they come on with me. They was with me last night, reg’lar.”
“I see.” The Inspector paused. “O’Flaherty, do you know what has happened?”
“Yes, sor. I’ve been told. And a shame it is, sor,” responded O’Flaherty soberly. He stole a glance at the limp figure of Cyrus French, then jerked his head back toward the Inspector as if he had committed an indiscretion. His cronies followed his gaze, and looked forward again in exactly the same manner.
“Did you know Mrs. French by sight?” asked the Inspector, his keen little eyes studying the old man.
“I did, sor,” replied O’Flaherty. “She used to come to th’ store sometimes after closing when Mr. French was still here.”
“Often?”
“No, sor, Not so very. But I knowed her right enough, sor.”
“Hmmm.” Inspector Queen relaxed. “Now, O’Flaherty, answer carefully — and truthfully. As truthfully as if you were on the witness-stand. — Did you see Mrs. French last night?”
Silence had fallen in the room — a silence pregnant with beating hearts and racing pulses. All eyes were on the broad mottled face of the old watchman. He licked his lips, seemed to reflect, squared his shoulders.
“Yes, sor,” he said, with a little hiss.
“At what time?”
“’Twas just eleven-forty-five, sor,” replied O’Flaherty. “Y’see, there ain’t but one night entrance to th’ store after hours. All th’ other doors and exits are ironed up. That one door is on 39th Street, th’ Employees’ Entrance. There ain’t no way but that t’get in or out o’ the buildin’. I—”
Ellery moved suddenly, and everybody turned toward him. He smiled deprecatingly at O’Flaherty. “Sorry, dad, but I’ve just thought of something... O’Flaherty, do I understand you to say that there is only one way into the store after hours — the Employees’ Entrance?”
O’Flaherty champed his blue old jaws reflectively. “Why, yes, sor,” he said. “And what’s wrong about that?”
“Very little,” smiled Ellery, “except that I believe there is a night freight-entrance on the 39th Street side as well...”
“Oh, that!” snorted the old watchman. “Tain’t hardly an entrance, sor. Mostly always shut. So, as I was sayin’—”
Ellery lifted a slender hand. “One moment, O’Flaherty. You say, ‘Mostly always shut.’ Just what do you mean by that?”
“Well,” replied O’Flaherty, scratching his poll, “it’s shut down tighter’n a drum all night exceptin’ between eleven o’clock and eleven-thirty. So it don’t hardly count.”
“That’s your point of view,” said Ellery argumentatively. “I thought there must be a good reason for having a special nightwatchman at the spot all night. Who is he?”
“That’s Bloom over here,” said O’Flaherty. “Bloom, step out, man, and let the gentlemen look ye over.”
Bloom, a sturdy middle-aged man with reddish, graying hair, stepped uncertainly forward. “That’s me,” he said. “Nothin’ wrong in my freight department last night, if that’s what you wanna know...”
“No?” Ellery eyed him keenly. “Exactly why is the freight-entrance opened between eleven and eleven-thirty?”
“Fer the delivery of groceries an’ meats an’ such,” answered Bloom. “Big turn-over every day in the store restaurant, and then there’s the Employees’ Restaurant too. Get supplies fresh every night.”
“Who is the trucker?” interrupted the Inspector.
“Buckley & Green. Same driver an’ unloader every night sir.”
“I see,” said the Inspector. “Get it down, Hagstrom, and make a note to question the men on the truck... Anything else, Ellery?”
“Yes.” Ellery turned once more to the red-haired nightwatchman. “Tell us just what happens every night when the Buckley & Green truck arrives.”
“Well, I go on duty at ten,” said Bloom. “At eleven every night the truck rolls up and Johnny Salvatore, the driver, rings the night bell outside the freight door...”
“Is the freight door kept locked after five-thirty?”
MacKenzie, the store manager, interrupted. “Yes, sir. It’s automatically locked at closing-time. Never opened till the truck comes up at eleven.”
“Go on, Bloom.”
“When Johnny rings, I unlock the door — it’s sheet iron — and roll ’er up. Then the truck drives inside, an’ Marino, the unloader, unpacks the stuff and stores it, while Johnny and myself check it over in my booth near the door. That’s all. When they’re through, they take the truck out, I unroll the door, and lock it, and just stay there all night.”
Ellery pondered. “Does the door remain open while the truck is being unloaded?”
“Sure,” said Bloom. “It’s only for a half an hour, and besides, nobody could hardly get in without one of us seeing ’em.”
“You’re sure of that?” asked Ellery sharply. “Positive? Swear to it, man?”
Bloom hesitated. “Well, I don’t hardly see how anybody could,” he said lamely. “Marino’s out there unloading, and Johnny and me in the booth right by the door...”
“How many electric lights are there in this freight room?” demanded Ellery.
Bloom looked bewildered. “Why, there’s one big light right over where the truck is, and then there’s a small one in my booth. Johnny keeps his headlights on, too.”
“How big is this freight room?”
“Oh, about seventy-five foot deep by fifty wide. Store emergency trucks are parked there for the night, too.”
“How far from your booth does the truck unload?”
“Oh, way in, near the back, where there’s a chute from the kitchen.”
“And one light in all that black expanse,” murmured Ellery. “The booth is enclosed, I suppose?”
“Just a glass window facing the inside of the room.”